Heathcliff is number one.

Mark Trail's talking house makes a very special guest appearance in today's Heathcliff, where the punchline is that Mr. Nutmeg wants a little quiet to play poker on his hunting trip, while Heathcliff wants to lure the forest animals to the cabin so they'll eat Mr. Nutmeg and his friends.

The Horn of Gondor appears to be an all-purpose animal call.

Edit: I usually ignore Kitty Korner, but today's is just fantastic.

For the purpose of today's awesome joke, Heathcliff's nose has migrated to the top of his head. A giant's penis has buried itself in Mr. Nutmeg's skull (causing immense pleasure), and an injured spider disguised as a propeller cap lays its eggs in Iggy's brain. This is a sure sign of the apocalypse, which Heathcliff welcomes with a blast of his trumpet (sucks to be the city of Jericho), and the church welcomes with the pealing of their bells. Iggy, for a change, is the only one who isn't crazy.

Somebody please tell me that I'm not the only person who sees a startling link between the above strip and the following WWII propaganda posters. Please.







Heh..."Jap trap." Oh shit, those mice had better look out!

What's Heathcliff done?

1. Charged skywriting on Mr. Nutmeg's credit card.
2. Hired a commercial plane to do a prop plane's job.
3. Shook the heavens and the earth to such an extent that all the houses on the block were moved farther and farther away from the sidewalk.
4. Cut off your hands (and Iggy's).
5. Can't be bothered to look at the handiwork of the skywriter, likely due to a bird flying slightly to the left.
6. Nothing. Mr. Nutmeg is simply paranoid about his cat's ability to act like a human because he's probably the result of some consort between a cat and a jackal. If your cat was the Cat of the Devil, you'd be paranoid, too.

I found all six!

The economy, if you haven't noticed, sucks a massive dick, forcing Mrs. Nutmeg to shop at a tiny store called Huge Deals where Gas Pills (For Cats) come in huge fucking boxes that are bigger than the store itself. The store also appears to be frequented and staffed by a crew of ghosts.

Heathcliff, for his part, looks fucking terrified. The economy, sucking as much penis as it does, has forced many hard working families to find alternative ways to fuel their driving machines. Deep fryer oil not being in ready supply for the Nutmegs, the family decided to take a chance on these new Gas Pills (For Cats) in an effort to wrench something useful from the most useless member of the family. Heathcliff's problem with all this?

Gas Pills (For Cats) are a suppository. A fucking huge suppository.

Heathcliff started a summer internship program for all of his recent graduates. (Holy fuck, continuity?!) This doesn't sit well with Mr. Nutmeg, who hires a handless Orkin man to do Arnold Schwarzenegger's job, namely, spouting badass one liners and look intimidating. The mice and Heathcliff are unimpressed, because honestly, who takes a no handed exterminator seriously?

Decent strip streak: 2 Days

It's taken around 235 of these, but Heathcliff finally has a face and eyes, all at the same time. Heathcliff's feat are touching the ground, the Nutmegs have had the same neighbor-lady (Marcy from Peanuts) instead of the usual rotating crew of schmoes, and the joke, while very obvious, isn't exactly half bad.

A step in the right direction?

Mr. Nutmeg decides to have a cookout and invites over the random next door neighbor. Heathcliff is in charge of buttering the corn, which excites Iggy, because nothing is more awesome than corn with cat fur in it. The neighbor is justifiably apprehensive about taking his plate from Heathcliff for three reasons:

1. Heathcliff appears to be doing a sexy dance, arms spread apart, face locked in some erotic expression of his feelings for this new neighbor.

2. Cats, even if they're smart enough to butter a corn cob with a paint roller, probably aren't smart enough to pick up a roller that hasn't been used. Iggy's claim that the cob of corn came from the roller itself is a little worrying, because I wouldn't want to live next door to a house full of black magic practitioners either.

3. There's giant sperm dripping from both the roller and the plate that the corn cob are on, and I hear that sperm doesn't have a pleasant taste.

I think Peter Gallagher has been fired from Creator's Syndicate and has decided to go down in a blaze of absurdest glory. If this is indeed the case, I can't wait for the next few weeks of strips.

The Nutmegs have declared biological war on the mice who live in their house, because it's so much nicer than wringing necks or spraying them with chemical pesticides. Heathcliff, with his gaseous breath, has become a Nazi evil agent of death, and really, his hunchback just creeps me the fuck out.

The Big News of the Neighborhood: Marcy from Peanuts moved in next door to the Nutmegs in their ever revolving cast of people who appear at the fence.

The Big News of the Nutmeg Family: "Heathcliff's pills are hidden in his food, but don't tell him! If I say it from this far away, he won't really get it! Also, don't tell Mr. Nutmeg that he's pretty much the most pussywhipped man on the block. After the hot dog eating contest, he has to rub my back, fetch me my froggie, tend to dinner, and then he gets to give me oral." - Mrs. Nutmeg

"My wife is fat and disgusting enough that years of her standing at that fucking window have caused the floorboards to buckle and break a bit, resulting in my being as tall as her, even though she's standing on what was once a raised surface." - Mr. Nutmeg

The Big News to M. Night Shyamalan: "Hot dogs don't really have the cool shape you espoused them to in The Happening. (Penis.) Rather, they look like overgrown Hostess cupcakes with the creme filling taken out." - Peter Gallagher.

Heathcliff is a racist who doesn't see Latino meat or Jew meat. This, for some reason, pisses off Mr. Nutmeg, who is being even more unseemly by masturbating at the Public Ooz. The peacock is escaping his cage via explosion, at which point, Heathcliff will become colorblind, because he has exotic tastes.

Heathcliff's new dog catching net was hewed from a redwood that was felled by a bolt of lightning thrown by Zeus on high.

I uhh...I don't know what the joke is.

The last time I checked, men named Jack don't open up "salons." They're called Barber Shops, they have awesome poles, and feature barbers who cut hair in 'Nam. You go to a salon though? You expect your hair to come out silky smooth? Prepare to have your scalp slathered in some Chinese fucking lather that'll result in a gaggle of cloned cats growing where your hair and forehead and eyes should be.

You've been warned.

In panel two, Heathcliff prays to God. In panel three, God sticks His cock in Heathcliff's mouth.

The rest is irrelevant.

Mr. Nutmeg follows his cat around at night for no fucking reason than to crack wise about his being at a restaurant called "Le Garbage," which is French for "The Garbage," which means that Gallagher wasn't using French but is pretty much bullshitting for a "punchline."

Le Garbage has a two month waiting list because they forgot the little things: Doors, for instance. The two month wait pissed Heathcliff off to such an extent that he beat Sonja, hence the lumps on the back of her head. Also in the line are an interracial couple and a pair of clones. Still, the "joke" is that there's a waiting list for The Garbage.

I'm also guessing that Pac Man being on the scene means that it's the deep of night, so Nutmeg dragged a neighbor out there to see a cat stand in line. It's fairly obvious that Mr. Nutmeg hasn't had sex since one of Iggy's parents were conceived.

Otherwise, this is the most awesome cramming together of stock Heathcliff environs since Heathcliff and the penalty box went to couples therapy. The background city, a fence, Pac Man, Mr. Nutmeg, a random neighbor from strip's past, and a fuckload of pussy cats (not to mention the same storefront from every fucking strip), makes for a pretty awesome drinking game, minus the alcohol poisoning.

Heathcliff, master cartographer and wearer of sexy specs, is planning the best mode of attack for when the ice cream truck comes by the Nutmeg house later on that afternoon. While logic dictates that all you need to properly bushwhack the ice cream truck is a sharp rock tied to a stick and crackerjack timing, Heathcliff is using a compass and a map (probably cleverly titled "Map" like the one stuck to the wall behind him) to chart everything out, even though he knows when and where the ice cream truck will be. It probably works better than their Apple II sitting in the background.

Mrs. Nutmeg isn't at all worried that her cat is going to be leading her grandson into a fight against a two ton truck.

Heathcliff, an extremely hungry cat who prefers live things to lasagna, strolls to Exotic Birds, where he presumably eats a whole lot of exotic birds and a P Balloon, the only possible explanation for his interaction with the sidewalk. His bounce out the door seems to be from an advanced height, resulting in the fork and knife he's holding in his paws by some gypsy black magic to pop right out. Heathcliff, if you'll notice, hasn't been drawn any fatter than usual. Still looks like a troll who ate a baby. Perhaps an exotic baby.

In other news, Iggy Nutmeg Captain Obvious strikes again.

Flagrant copyright violations aside, Heathcliff has a dream where a dogcatcher leads him to a big, phallic fire hydrant. Heathcliff stands in awe of its girth while the handless dogcatcher explains his dream to Heathcliff, who isn't paying attention, because he's already dreaming of big dicks, and no allusions to children's literature is going to distract him from that dream.

With giant sperm on top.

So that's why Iggy's hand is always down his pants...

ATTN

A rare metapost, I just wanted to inform people that I've just started a new comic blog as of today, an examination of the life of that lovable scamp Mark Trail.

It will be daily, feature tags and (hopefully) witty titles, and I'm sure that once I get used to having so much to talk about that the blog will be funnier than my first strip, which is alright, considering that absolutely nothing happened.

As far as this place goes, expect no changes. I recently went back and filled in all the comics that I missed for whatever reason since my Oct. 29 starting date, so a trip through the archives is either going to reveal some funny shit or some awful "I can't believe I did 13 of these today" tidbits. It was a long, grueling process, but when October 29 rolls around, I'll be able to say that I survived 365 of these.

Cool? Cool.

At school, Iggy was told that chicks dig heavy machinery. Realizing that Heathcliff's girlfriend was a total prude, Iggy decided to do whatever it took to get Heathcliff some chicks, thusly renting out a steam shovel with Mr. Nutmeg's credit card.

Iggy isn't very witty though, because "big penis" is meant by "big machinery," which is terrible, because it doesn't take into account all of the women who don't like penis, or, better yet, prefer those that are built for comfort rather than impalement.

Mr. Nutmeg is just surprised that the thing moves. The tracks appear to be wound around a big rectangle with some circles bolted to it.

This is just like the origin of Daredevil. An old man wanted ice cream, but a toxic waste truck was merely playing the ice cream song. He was about to get drilled until Matt Murdoch pushed him out of the way to be first in line, temporarily causing him to eat toxic waste. Sadly, Heathcliff looks less than enthused at those prospects. Ben Afleck or Peter Gallagher? Tough choice.

In today's "Kitty Korner," we have some appallingly bad parenting. Can you spot it?

Heathcliff's claws are sharp enough to dig into drywall and plaster, enabling him to climb up walls ala Spider-Man. Instead of using this awesome ability to fight super villains, he pulls out a Zebco and ties a huge hunk of cheese to a string before letting it drop to the floor outside a mouse hole. Mr. Nutmeg says that it is something like fishing. The Pest Control man says that it's something like the most retarded thing he's ever seen.

The cheese's position on the floor is impossible, unless carpet has a current.

Heathcliff is understandably wary of jogging out to the mound: it appears to be made of quicksand. To remedy this, he steals an elephant-shaped balloon from the parade and floats it out to the mound, which will completely stop him from sinking once he starts pitching.

Softball?!? Heathcliff is a pussy. And I mean that in the derogatory way, not that he's a cat, or better, a vagina. It probably isn't even fast pitch. At least that'd be somewhat respectable.

Mr. Nutmeg isn't the slightest bit concerned that his cat has a cannon (Kitten Cannon?). He's also not very concerned that his cat's head is on backwards. And can't he just go up to the cannon and grab the envelope?

I know there's a chance that Heathcliff could set the cannon off, but let's be honest: that isn't going to happen. This strip was written in a time when circus cannons were joke fodder, and was thusly written well before women were part of the workforce. Heathcliff blows Mr. Nutmeg to kingdom come? No more wet food for you.

Anyway, if I were Iggy, I'd grow a fucking pair, put those three spiky pieces of hair to use, and shank Grandpa for asking, nay demanding, to see those grades. Mr. Nutmeg isn't Iggy's father: Iggy's parents died in a bizarre gardening accident! And even if they were alive, they'd lie their asses off about Iggy's poor grades, because nobody wants to add on to the heap of misery that is growing old and watching life slide out of view.

Demand a Wii Fit and at least a year's worth of wet food before you give up, Iggy. Then, when the old man is least expecting it, sign the papers. Better yet, blow the cannon, cite that Mr. Nutmeg failed clown college, and collect the money Mr. Nutmeg no doubt left behind. Isn't that every grandparent's dream? To see the money they worked so hard for go to people with a track record of failure? KABOOM, and then it's all the pizza, video games, and late night TV you want...just like a relationship with a grand parent should be...minus the grandparent.

Every inexplicable thing Heathcliff has done in the past year can be explained away by his poor golf game...even the one time when he showed up to therapy in a penalty box.

Considering that somebody tied water balloons on the ends of sticks and sold them to Heathcliff as golf clubs, I don't blame him. With his cat like intellegence, he wouldn't really know any better, so taking a drive is akin to Lucy pulling the football from Charlie Brown, only Heathcliff breaks an expensive piece of equipment and looks like he pissed himself on the course.

Therapy isn't going to help much though. Looking at the giant hat on top of the bookshelf, I guess Heathcliff's therapist is none other than Luigi Mario, which explains why previous treatment hasn't worked, and also why a shrink would take an animal on as a patient.

There are two possible explanations for this strip. First, Heathcliff is an illusion, and Mr. Nutmeg wrapped the garbage cans for some unknown reason, then decided to rebuke his imaginary cat for something that'd be impossible for him to do, let alone it being a behavior he's prone two. Second, this Heathcliff is a Heathcliff from a mirror dimension, replacing the normal, evil cat with a nice, tame, bearded house cat that does family chores and puts gift wrap on everything.

Either way, I fail to see how this is funny.

Heathcliff, who is very skilled with a spoon, is incensed at the lack of fat in his cat food (because Heathcliff is...shall we say...a "butterball"). After disarming both Mrs. Nutmeg and Marcy from Peanuts, he enters a time machine that enables him to travel back to the 1950's, the last time fat was commercially available in large, Quaker Oatmeal-style tins. Back to the future, he gives his cat food a healthy dollop of fat, meaning that it now has much more fat than any cat food Heathcliff has likely ever had.

I hope he dies of cardiac arrest.

From the looks of things, Heathcliff has had two legs amputated, and the remaining two broken and set at an extremely odd angle, the result of which is that he looks like a floating blob with orange Peeps stuck to him...and not even real Peeps, but those dumb rabbit ones.

The sight of this abomination understandably scares the shit out of a vast army of dogs, who all climb up a tree in a repeat of the pussywillow "joke" that appeared just one week ago. Luckily, Waldorf and Statler are there to tell us just how pathetic the whole proceedings are.